


Colossus in Ruins

by zinjadu



Series: Never Put Together Entirely [11]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Beginnings, Character Death, Drinking, Endings, F/M, Family Feels, Friends make the best family, Friendship, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Moving On, Purple Hawke, Wakes & Funerals, but friends can also be the worst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-06 04:16:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17338412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zinjadu/pseuds/zinjadu
Summary: Hawke sacrificed herself in the Fade, and that means there's only Bethany Hawke left of what was once, if not a happy family, a whole family.  Though as she starts to pick up the pieces of her life, she learns that her sister left her more than a fortunate and a nice house.





	1. Mouthpiece of the dead

_ Sunshine, _

 

_ Tried to write this a few times, but there’s no way to make this news any better.  It’s Hawke, Marian, shit she hated that name but you’re a Hawke too and, damn it. There I go again, off track.   _

 

_ Marian’s dead gone.  I hate that word, “gone”, like she’s going to come back and.  I’m sorry, I don’t— _

 

_ Hawke is.  Hawke is dead. _

 

_ I know you’d want to know how it happened.  You never did like being kept in the dark. It’s just hard to know how to start.  I’m sure Hawke told you it’s Corypheus that’s to blame for the current mess. Yeah turns out he didn’t stay dead even though he looked pretty flattened when we last saw him.  Well, he’d found a way to control a lot more Wardens and the Inquisition marched on their fortress to take them down. Hawke was with us because, we’ll, just try keeping her out of a fight.  Long story short, we ended up in the Fade, and. She— _

 

_ She stayed behind to cover our escape.  Broke Warden Alistair’s ribs to do it. But that’s Hawke isn’t it?  Making sure she takes the hit instead of anyone else. And there I am writing in present tense about her. _

 

_ Was Hawke. _

 

_ Was.  Don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.   _

 

_ I’m… I’m sorry isn’t enough, Sunshine.  You two went through a lot together, and now.  I’m sorry. Sorry for this whole damned mess.  _

 

_ Enough of the self pity, you don’t need that from me.  Got a letter from to you in here from her. Pretty sure no one has read it, but the spymaster here is a little overzealous.   _

 

_ Just, take care of yourself, Sunshine.  And I already sent a letter to the others.  You might have a few guests soon. _

 

_ -V _

 

“Oh Varric,” Bethany sighed, blinking back tears.  “I know you loved her, too.” She set the letter down on her desk.  It fluttered in the breeze that came in through the open window of the study.  She’d turned it into her office over the years, running what was left of Kirkwall’s attenuated Circle out of the Estate.  Marian had never minded, though it wasn’t as if the mages lived here. Only the most desperate ever stayed a day or two. It was dangerous for them to come into this part of the city.

 

She picked up the other letter, smaller and on thinner paper than Varric’s.  One last scrap of her sister in the world, maybe the last thing she’d committed to paper.  Bethany wanted and didn’t want to read it at the same time, because once she read Marian’s last words there would be nothing new of Marian in the world ever again.  Marian—and Varric hadn’t been wrong, she’d  _ hated _ that name—her older sister, first protector and friend.  Who had always told her the truth and believed in her from the start.  Who had always faced all that life had thrown at her with a smirk and a quip, hiding her generous heart away for only a few to ever see.

 

Resolute, Bethany picked up the letter.  

 

_ Bethy, _

 

_ Unless Varric is playing a prank on you, then you’re reading this because I’m dead.  Can’t say I’ll be surprised. Hard to believe I’ve made it this far, with all the scrapes we’ve been in.  I’m sure someone gave you all the details, so I’ll tell you the important things. Like always. _

 

_ The estate is yours.  Deed and Will are in the same sort of place Father hid your magical texts.  Do whatever you want with the place and the coin. I know you’ll do something good with it. _

 

_ I’m proud of you, Bethy.  And I love you. If you can, find a way to be happy.  Never could figure that one out for myself. _

 

_ -M _

 

_ P.S.  Look after Varric for me if he ever comes back to Kirkwall.  He should be happy too, but you and I both know he’ll mope if given the chance.  That dwarf is far too fond of tragedies. _

 

Bethany smiled through the tears.  She could hear her sister’s voice as she read the letter, could even see the smirk on her face and the teasing gleam in her bright blue eyes.  Her sister might be gone, but she lived in Bethany’s memory. In the memories of everyone who had loved her and known her.

 

She’d handle the details later, but first she read her sister’s letter again, to see her one last time.


	2. Listen for the scrape of a keel

Bethany had been to too many funerals in her lifetime.  Father’s had not been the first, but at the time she’d thought it was the worst.  Only fifteen when she’d lost her father, and her sister had held her and Carver’s hands at the funeral, their mother keening and lost.  Marian had shouldered the weight of the family from that day on. Had ignored Mother’s barbed comments about how Malcolm wouldn’t have let things get so bad, had endured Carver’s sullen competitiveness until their brother had taken himself off to the army.  Had watched over Bethany as best she could, and Bethany had done her best to give her sister nothing to worry about.

 

There had been no funeral for Carver.  Only the desperate flight away from the darkspawn toward the dubious safety of Kirkwall, but as they fled Marian had taken Bethany’s hand and run.  Her older sister pulled Bethany along behind her, massive sword held easily in her other hand, ready to cut down anything that came between them and escape.

 

Mother’s funeral had been small, only family and close friends, and Bethany had been allowed to attend under the watchful eyes of Templars.  Bethany had stood beside her sister as the Reverend Mother exhorted them to remember Leandra Hawke as a devoted mother and wife, a woman who risked all for love and her children, and to find comfort that she was past suffering now.  That she was at the Maker’s side. Bethany recalled Marian’s face, impassive and dry eyed, but her hand had gripped Bethany’s tightly, and Bethany had squeezed back with all the strength she could. Marian had always been strong, and Bethany’s hand hurt for days after that, but that had been a comfort after she’d returned to the Gallows.  An echo of her sister to be with her in her grief.

 

But Marian couldn’t hold her hand now.

 

The Chantry had been rebuilt, though it was not half so grand as the one that Anders had destroyed.  Like every time the possessed mage came to her thoughts, Bethany’s lips twisted in distaste. He was everything and every reason that people had to fear mages, yes, but he’d done something worse in Bethany’s eyes.  He’d spat on Marian’s friendship, on her willingness to help. He’d betrayed her sister with his mad brand of defiance. Primal anger rose in her chest, but she pushed those thoughts away. They had no place here, today.  Instead, she thought about what her sister would say at having her funeral, such as it was, in a house of worship when Marian had lost her faith a long time ago.

 

She’d probably make some sly crack about the underappreciated nature of bar-based funerals.

 

“You holding up?” a Ferelden accented voice broke into her thoughts.  Bethany raised her eyes from Marian’s symbolic pyre—because there was no body to burn, and Bethany idly thought it was in keeping with her sister’s style to die in a way that subverted tradition—to meet the steady, clear gaze of Aveline.  Bethany was grateful it was Aveline, the woman who had been with them from Ferelden to the end, who had known Marian as well as anyone could, and had seen to the heart of her sister in a way barely anyone had.

 

“Managing for now,” Bethany answered thickly.  It was true, and she’d never had Marian’s need to evade her own emotional state.  But she hadn’t had Marian’s burdens either. Aveline wrapped a strong arm around Bethany’s shoulders, and Bethany leaned into the warm solidity of her friend.  Then a calloused hand slipped into Bethany’s, and she turned to see Isabela at her side. The pirate queen wore a her hat, a massively feathered monstrosity that Marian had bought for her, and Bethany smiled even as she started to tear up again.  People around them scowled at the apparent show of disrespect, but Bethany knew that Marian would have loved it. She would have snickered at the incensed expressions on people’s faces, probably going so far as to point out the ones who disapproved the most for later mocking.

 

“Don’t you worry, girl, I’ve got several bottles of rum for later, and we’ll toast your sister in style,” Isabela said, her own smile brittle at the edges.  Bethany wished Merrill was in the city, but the Dalish mage had left to help the Hero of Ferelden while another Warden stayed behind to help Marian. The Warden Marian had died to save.  Merrill would have brought flowers, all the flowers she could have stolen from every garden, not that she thought of it as stealing, not even after years of living in the city.

 

Bethany had brought a spray of daisies, because Marian had taken the small elf under her wing all the more after Bethany had gone to the Circle.  Her sister had always needed to have someone to protect, even if she’d scoff at the idea.

 

“Hrm, rum,” a low grunt came from behind them and all the women shifted to see Fenris standing in his habitual pocket of space.  People always gave the elf a wide berth without realizing what they were doing. His green eyes were hard, and the lyrium marks on his body glowed faintly as if he were angry but holding back.  “She hated rum. I managed to procure some new bottles of a fine Tevinter vintage. I even left the wine cellar intact.”

 

“Only because you couldn’t bring all the wine with you, I’m guessing,” Isabela drawled, and a scimitar smile cut across Fenris’s face.

 

“I’m glad you’re both here,” Aveline said, and then pursed her lips thoughtfully.  “Try not to destroy the city while you’re visiting.”

 

“So am I,” Bethany echoed, shuffling out from under Aveline’s arm to offer her other hand to Fenris.  She knew better than to grab for his hand, and she doubted he would accept the comfort but she had to offer all the same.  Then, to her surprise, he easily took her hand in his own, the shock of the lyrium on his skin tingling up her arm, but he merely squeezed her hand as if he was not bothered by the contact or her being a mage in the slightest.  Today, they weren’t the lost people that Marian had picked up in her wake.

 

Today they were family.

 

* * *

 

Aveline still couldn’t quite believe it, even after reading Varric’s letter, after seeing the letter he had written to Bethany.  Hawke was dead. Hawke, the one woman brute squad. Hawke, the unstoppable force of destruction. Hawke, the woman who had tried to save her family and ended up saving a city.

 

But there was another side to Marian Hawke, one that few people knew about.  

 

At the pulpit, Aveline raised her head and gazed out over the people packed into the Chantry.  It seemed like the entire population of Kirkwall had turned out to mourn its Champion. Marian had been a source of consternation, disbelief, and bewilderment for Aveline personally, and the city generally.  A woman who didn’t care about convention or propriety, who refused to live a sedate life. A woman who drank and gambled and caroused. A woman who fought.

 

Yet she was so much more than that.

 

“Marian Hawke would hate this,” Aveline said, pitching her voice as though for a parade field instead of a Chantry.  The murmurs and whispers stopped immediately. She caught sight of Bethany, Isabela and Fenris, grins of varying amusement flickering over their faces.  “Marian Hawke was many things to many people. A sister, a friend. A traitor to some. A hero to others. But to me, Marian Hawke was the most generous person I’ve ever known.”

 

Everyone in the room held their collective breath, and eyes began to glisten.  Aveline held her head high and refused to cry while she did this. Hawke loathed tears.

 

“She was generous to a fault.  She gave me the time to speak to my first husband one last time as he lay dying of the Blight.  She worked hard to give her family the home they deserved. She would take the time to help her friends without question.  She gave strangers and the hopeless and lost shelter from the storm of their lives. She stopped to talk to children who goggled at the Champion of Kirkwall, a title she’d never wanted to begin with.  She gave of herself, time after time, to this city and her people.” No tears, Aveline had promised herself. No tears for a woman who hated crying. Instead, she withdrew the flask she had prepared that morning, not caring for once that it was well before noon.  She held it prominently on the pulpit, and toward the back some few others displayed flasks of their own. Some people knew that much about Hawke to have come prepared.

 

“It was hard to believe she really was gone.  It’s still hard to believe it. We all saw her overcome so much, but I know she would not have wanted to stand here while another died.”   _ Again, _ Aveline did not say.  She thought she knew why Hawke attacked a monster as a another man contemplated doing the same.  An old debt to her brother, finally repayed perhaps. 

 

“She gave all she had, and I’m damned proud to have been her friend.  To have been a recipient of her generosity, as we all have.” She took a breath and raised her flask high.

 

“To Hawke!” Aveline cried and drank.  It was from the Estate, Hawke’s favorite whiskey, and it burned Aveline’s throat as it went down.  Her toast was echoed throughout the Chantry, and hundreds of Kirkwall’s residents followed suit.

 

The burn of the whiskey was why her eyes watered just then.  No other reason.

 

* * *

 

Now  _ this _ was Isabela’s kind of funeral.  Wine, women (and men) and song!

 

After Aveline’s toast to Hawke, the pyre had been lit and Kirkwall became one giant wake.  It was probably for the best that the little Kitten was out west. She would have learned a bit too much on this night.  Or it might’ve been good for her. Either way without Varric here Isabela would have had to look after the young woman—and absently Isabela realized that Merrill wasn’t so young anymore, but then that meant she was getting older, too, and that really didn’t bear thinking on—but instead she was free to do whatever she wanted.

 

What she wanted was another drink.

 

“Another round!” she called out, slamming the glass tumbler down on the bar.  The barkeep was sloshed herself, and amiability poured a full glass of whatever she were holding at the moment.  Isabela sniffed it, pleased to find it was a fairly good rum, and downed the alcohol in one gulp.

 

Hawke had always been good to go carousing with, and a better friend than she had ever thought she’d deserved.  Aveline had been right about that. A real friend, after all the shit she’d pulled in her life. All the shit she pulled on  _ Hawke _ .  But Hawke had given her another chance.  And seeing that, Isabela had wondered if there would come a day when Hawke would  _ stop _ giving her chances.  She’d decided then and there, when Hawke was dueling the damned Arishok for her, that she was done wasting her chances.  

 

She wasn’t about to waste this chance either.  Nearly the whole city must be out for a night of drinking and debauchery, honoring their Champion in the only way she’d approve of.  Isabela let her eyes roam around the common room of the tavern, hoping to spy a likely someone or someones to spend the next few hours with.  Some bard played bawdy songs. No songs of heroes and last stands or even the lyrical take on the Tale of the Champion on this day—Fenris had destroyed the lute of the one bard stupid enough to attempt that.

 

There was an absolutely lovely dwarven woman, all hips and bust and with the cutest little nose.  Or maybe the lithe elven man with his bright eyes well turned legs. Everywhere she turned there was someone she could take a fancy to, and several eyed her in return.  A few couples gave her a look she knew well, and yet nothing in her stirred. 

 

Frowning and the unexpected lack of drive, Isabela peered into her empty glass.  Maybe that was the problem. She needed to stop thinking. About everything. Just enjoy, celebrate Hawke’s life not get hung up on her  _ fucking stupid— _

 

Oh.

 

Isabela set the glass down on the bar, and seeing the barkeep abandon her post to take that dwarf upstairs, leaned over the bar to grab a bottle of rum.  Fortifying drink in hand, Isabela left the tavern and stepped out into the cool air of the evening. The people of Kirkwall were only just getting started, and music filled the spaces between drunken shouting and the high giggles of women and the lower chuckles of men all aimed at having a good time.  Hawke would be proud of this, a whole city turning to abandon in her honor.

 

Wandering through the streets, Isabela ended up at the docks, looking up at the statue they’d made of Hawke.  She’d hated it. Once she and Hawke had gone out for the night and both struck out, so they’d festooned Hawke’s own statue with ribbons and etched graffiti into its backside.  She took a pull on the bottle and walked slowly around the statue. In the distance she heard more frantic whoops, but she tuned it out as she squinted in the torchlight. A smirk twisted her lips and her fingers traced the lines of the barley legible words,  _ Serve my qun.   _

 

Not their best, but they had been very, very drunk.

 

The sounds of revelry drew closer, and Isabela vaulted herself onto the base of the statue.  Watching the party over take the docks, she climbed up on to Hawke’s larger than life shoulders and leaned her back against the stone head of the statue.  Ha, she’d wondered if she’d ever get her legs over Hawke’s head. Could do, now.

 

But the impromptu perch proved a good place to be, to sit back and appreciate how a whole city mourned the woman who had saved it.  The party lasted past the night, and as the dawn broke over then water the city of chains began to calm. Mist covered the harbor, but the sun was an orange disk that would burn it away, given time.

 

To that sun, the sun that would make the world begin again, Isabela raised her bottle of rum and said softly, “To you, Hawke.”

 

* * *

 

Fenris sat in the dark and drank.

 

Someone had bought or reappropriated Danarius’s estate, and even though he thought he might have left some rather fine bottles in the cellar, he doubted they were there any longer.  Either because someone had looted the mansion or because the current occupant had sold them, it hardly mattered. What mattered was that Hawke was  _ gone _ .  Dead.

 

It was almost impossible to fit into his head, the idea that Hawke wasn’t coming back.  Surely she would find a way out of even the Fade. This was the woman who had fought the Arishok and a high dragon.  Who had taken on a lyrium crazed madwoman and more blood mages than he cared to think about. She’d been a fulcrum of his life, shifting the course of his actions and making him something more than what he had been.  He had become… himself.

 

Glass shattered on the far wall of the Estate’s cellar, and Fenris stared at his suddenly empty hand.

 

Wine ran down the stones like blood, red, so red.  Red like the kaddis across her nose, a badge of honor and pride for a home and a land lost.  Red against the blue of her eyes, brighter than a summer’s day. All over a sword slash of a grin that challenged and crowed and  _ lived _ .

 

His friend was  _ gone _ .

 

His  _ friend _ was gone.

 

Jaw clenching against a scream, a wail, a howl, Fenris sank to his knees on the stone floor.  The hard impact ran up his body, but he didn’t pay attention to it. He’d endured worse physical pain before.  But the squeezing, aching pain in his chest was unlike anything he had known. The lyrium on his body flared to life, casting spiked shadows on the walls, and then he heard footsteps, sensed a shift in the air.

 

Someone had opened the door to the cellar.

 

“Leave me,” he growled, but the wooden stairs creaked.  He didn’t want anyone seeing him like this.  _ Weak _ .  At the funeral he had been able to maintain his composure.  All the eyes on him had shorn up his walls and kept his grief at bay.  But by himself in the dark, it had all come spilling out and he didn’t know if he could stop it.  

 

“I don’t think she’d want me to do that,” the intruder said.  It was a familiar voice, and so like that of the friend he had lost.  But then, she had lost a sister. Fenris raised his eyes to meet Bethany’s, her brown eyes bright in the light of his tattoos.  She knelt in front of him, but did not try to touch him for which he was grateful. Too grateful. His shoulders slumped and his head fell forward, the effort of keeping it up to meet her gaze too much for him.

 

“I don’t… how do you?  How do you let go?” he asked.  Fingers dug into the stone,  _ through _ the stone, cracking it, breaking apart the mortar.  

 

“I don’t know.  But if you figure it out, be sure to tell me,” she said, a wry lilt to her voice.  

 

“You don’t?  It never gets better?”  He felt like a child lost.  Grief such as this was not in his memory.  Righteous rage, murderous fury, those he understood.  This was  _ worse _ .  There was no one to kill, no vengeance to take because Hawke had thrown herself to her own death.  But he wanted someone to  _ hurt _ .  Someone should hurt, if only so he didn’t.

 

“It does, with time.  But then sometimes it hits you all over again like it’s fresh,” she said with a sigh.  Tension made his shoulders bunch. That was not the answer he wanted. That could not be right.  It had to  _ fade _ .  It had to.  How could people live with this?  “It’s like a wound that aches in the rain.  Most of the time you can carry on as normal once you’re healed, but now and again—” 

 

“It rains,” he said hollowly.  The sucking pain in his chest was not any less, but he could fight down the wild dog urge to lash out now.  Once more he raised his eyes to regard the woman who sat before him. Her eyes were puffy and red from crying, and yet she was here trying to help him understand.

 

He had lost his friend, perhaps the first friend he had ever known.

  
But he might not be without friends entirely.  Hawke had given him more than her own friendship.  She had given him a place, a people with whom he belonged.  A group of misfits and outcasts who—mostly—could be counted on when backs were to the wall.  

 

Hawke was gone, but the family she had created was not.

 

* * *

 

Bethany lied awake in her bed, dry, tired eyes going in and out of focus as she stared at up the dark ceiling.  Isabela was out there somewhere carousing through the night as Kirkwall celebrated the life of its Champion. Aveline and Donnic had opted to stay in their own home.  Fenris had occupied the wine cellar until Bethany had managed to shift him into one of the guest rooms. 

 

What was she supposed to do now?

 

Marian had left her the estate, and she recalled her sister’s letter.  The estate would be put to good use, of that Bethany had no doubt. She could begin to reform something like Kirkwall’s Circle, help the mages  _ and  _ the city.  But first her fellow mages needed shelter, a safe place to study and learn and offer services to those who needed them.  She had enough money to her name that they didn’t even have to turn a profit. 

 

It was harder to know what happiness would be at this point in her life.  Maybe it would be doing good work for the city Marian had saved time and time again.  Maybe it would be keeping in touch with her friends and seeing them whenever they came to visit.  Beyond that, Bethany had no further plans. Whatever happiness there was to be had in this world, the Hawkes had surely drawn the last and most meagre spoonful.  

 

Anything else might be asking too much, and Bethany knew what happened to greedy girls who wanted more than they were allotted.  What happened to those who flew too high and proud. Resolved, Bethany let her eyes drift shut because tomorrow would be a busy day.  There was much to do, if she was going to live up to her sister’s last hope for her.

 

Marian had been let down by so many people in her life, the least Bethany could do was ensure that she wasn’t let down in death.


	3. Their old anarchy to the horizon-line

Life went on.

 

Bethany didn’t begrudge Isabela for boarding her ship and sailing away, nor Fenris for simply disappearing between one day and the next.  All his things had been gone from the room she’d given him, and she hoped he wouldn’t kill too many people working out his grief for her sister.  Or at least he’d find people who really deserved killing. He probably would. Fenris had that way about him. Aveline returned to her duties, but the guard captain did make sure to visit the estate now and again.  Bethany was torn between being grateful for Aveline’s thoughtfulness and wanting to slam the door in her face.

 

It wasn’t like her.  That was something Marian might’ve done, refusing sympathy and understanding.  It wasn’t what Bethany did. Good, sweet Bethany. The mage, the youngest of Malcolm and Leandra’s children, the one that needed the most protecting.

 

There was no one to protect her now.

 

Shaking her head in an attempt to clear it, Bethany pulled her dress on over her head and did up the buttons along the side before checking her reflection briefly in the mirror.  The dark circles under her eyes were still there, and she applied a touch of powder to mute the evidence of her own sleeplessness. 

 

As she brushed errant black strands of hair away from her face, the door to her bedroom creaked open and Orana strode through the room like she owned it.  Bethany allowed a grin to curve the corner of her mouth to see the once cringing former slave move through the estate like it was her own grand home. Then again, after all Orana had seen the Hawke family go through, no doubt she thought if she didn’t keep the house running, Bethany herself would fall apart.  Briskly, Orana pushed back the heavy red drapes, letting in the wan, late winter light.

 

“Big day today, Messere Hawke,” Orana said brightly.  She turned around, taking in the state of the room. It had been Marian’s, though Orana had pointedly not allowed Bethany to sleep on the bed until the mattress had been replaced.  Marian would’ve wanted Bethany to have the room, would have called it a stupid, sentimental waste to avoid using it. This from the woman who hadn’t opened the door to their mother’s room even once after she died.  

 

Now, however, Leandra’s room had been aired out.  All the rooms had been. It was, after all, a big day.

 

“I suppose it is,” Bethany agreed.  Her slight grin turned into a real smile then, and she brushed any stray lint off her dress.  The once Amell and now Hawke Estate had stood virtually empty for far, far too long. It could be put to better use, and Bethany couldn’t think of a better way to honor her sister than by giving shelter to people who needed it.  

 

Aveline had been right when she’d spoken at the funeral.  Marian had always tried to take care of people, to be generous, even if she also tried to hide it.  Well, Bethany thought as she exited the room, she wasn’t about to hide who and what she was anymore.  

 

She descended the staircase only to have to step around the elderly and slumbering Mabari by the fire.  Dane, originally Carver’s dog, then Marian’s, and now her’s. Barely a out of puppyhood when they had fled Lothering,now he was a stately old man of a dog.  She retraced her path and knelt to scratch his ears, earning a happy, sleep grumble from the dog before she moved on.

 

Reaching the large double doors of the main entrance, Bethany threw them open.  Crisp light streamed into the red-carpeted vestibule along with a puff of brisk air, and standing just on the bottom of the staircase were a handful of mages.  She recognized a few faces from the Gallows, and the other two she didn’t know at all.

 

For years after the Chantry explosion, the mages had largely fled the city.  Those that stayed behind didn’t have a wealthy sister to take them in, and they had gone to ground.  Merrill and Bethany had helped them where they could, and Aveline had not chased them down. She had seen first hand what hunting mages turned into.  But finally,  _ finally _ , Bethany was offering them a new home.  A new way of doing things.

 

A second chance.

 

Stepping outside, she reached into the Fade and tugged on a string of magic, wending it about her body to warm her as the wind tugged at her hair like Carver had used to do when they were children.  Before Marian had made him stop. The huddled mass of bodies swayed where they stood, as if they were a herd of wary deer ready to leap away at a moment’s notice.

 

She extended her hand and thought about what her sister would do.  Probably roll her eyes and tell them they could freeze if they wanted.  But she wasn’t her sister. She could only be herself, and do what she thought was right.

 

“Come on in, everyone is welcome here.  We have plenty of food, warm beds, and a very nice library.”  Bethany kept her voice soft, entreating, not wanting to startle them.  But she couldn’t help the smirk that stole across her face. “Just accept that Dane always gets the best spot by the fire.  He’s an old dog, and set in his ways.”

 

A nervous chuckle wove through the mages before her, and cautiously they shuffled forward.  Forward and up the stairs and through the door. She did not give them a tour of the house, but let them find their own comfortable spaces.  Tears choked her throat to see their jaws drop in wonder at the size of the Estate, and how one young man made straight for Dane to pat the old dog gently and kindly.  Dane lazily rolled onto his back for belly scritches, and Bethany knew she’d done the right thing.

 

She wasn’t her sister, but life went on.  Her life went on, and she’d damn well make something of it.

 

* * *

 

“I’m alright Sunshine.”  That was a lie. He hadn’t been alright since Hawke hadn’t come out of the Fade.  Since Goldie and Warden Boy had made it back to reality and Hawke. Hawke had flown away for good this time.  Because of him. But that wasn’t anything Varric hadn’t told himself a thousand times, and there wasn’t much point in it.  Not when Bethany was glaring at him across the table in his rooms at The Hanged Man because he hadn’t told her he was back in the city.

 

“Varric, you and I both know you’re a liar.”  Bethany regarded him with tired eyes—she was running herself ragged as the new Head Mage in the Fancy Hat—but she could still pull that  _ Hawke _ look as he thought of it.  One eyebrow quirked up, the other furrowed, and a smirk curving her mouth.  But instead of eyes an impossible blue, over that sharp nose were a pair of warm brown eyes that held more open sympathy than he was prepared for.  But then, this was Sunshine, not Hawke. She was right though, he was a lair. Adept at avoiding all sorts of questions, and he wasn’t about to stop now.

 

“Is this because I didn’t come to see you straight away?  I suppose I can be grateful that you still care,” he said, a bitter twist to his words and on his lips.  He didn’t mean for that to come out. In Skyhold it had been easy. Hawke hadn’t been a part of the mountain keep.  But here, in this city, every cursed corner held a reminder of best friend. The courtyard where they had first met, the door to her Uncle’s house, and even this room.  This room where she would pass out drunk after pouring her heart out when this city had thrown its worst at her again, this room where they had played cards until the wee hours.  This room where they had fallen together in a way that should have never happened, yet it did.

 

“Cut the bullshit, Varric,” Bethany snapped, slapping her hand down on the table between them.  He nearly jumped out of his seat. Not because of the slap itself, but because this was Bethany getting angry to the point of hitting things.  Unsure of what to do about  _ that _ , he hesitated while she got herself back under control with a slow exhalation of her breath.  The hand that had slammed onto the table turned up and reached for him, and she said, “It’s alright to miss her.  I miss her so much and you—”

 

Varric’s shoulders slumped, and he raised his eyes to meet her gaze this time.  And this time he didn’t lie.

 

“Trusted the wrong person,” he said quietly.  “I told Bianca, yes  _ that _ Bianca, about the thaig.  And she. She.” Varric’s jaw worked silently, but no words came.  A storyteller who couldn’t bear to tell this tale. A tale of his betrayal, and the betrayal of one of the women he loved, however unknowing, by the other.  

 

“It’s not your fault, Varric,” she said softly.  “It’s not.”

 

He grunted his disbelief.  Then he let out a slow breath and sat up straighter, tugging down his coat so it sat his shoulders slightly better.  “Well, I suppose I can say I’ve learned my lesson. Finally.”

 

Sunshine watched him sidelong, and Varric let her.  She was a bright one, and it didn’t take a great detective to figure out what he wasn’t saying.  If he was to blame for Hawke’s death, then so was Bianca. Bianca who had betrayed him. Betrayed him in a way that he hadn’t expected, and that had been the last straw.  

 

How fragile had things been between them before that?  He knew how fragile, and yet it hadn’t bothered him. He had the pieces of her that she let him have, even though that was precious little.  Hawke, though. Hawke hadn’t held back, not with him. She had been the best friend he had ever known, and now that it was too late he realized that she had been the love of his life.  And maybe he had been her’s. 

 

What a sorry story that made.

 

With one betrayal, he had lost Hawke and Bianca both.  Bianca, he could live without. He had been living without her for years, really.  But Hawke? Hawke and her sarcasm and secretly big heart? With those impossibly blue eyes and fierce smile.  Andraste help him, he didn’t know if he could do this. Not in this city.

 

He should leave.  Go somewhere else.  Maybe tag along with the Inquisitor a bit more.  He’d only come back because he didn’t know where else to go now that it was all over.  Then Bethany stood and crossed the distance between them to put her hand on his shoulder.

 

“Don’t think you can disappear on me, Varric.  You’re one of the closest things to family I have left, and I’m not letting you go.”  Varric raised his eyes to meet hers, and wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. Or, he could try to stay.  He’d never been good at dealing with things. Not his own things. Stories were easier. Stories he could move around, make things happen, change how people thought and felt or skip over the anguish if it got to be too much.

 

There was no paging to the back of the book for this.  There was only living through it.

 

“I know better than to argue with a Hawke, Sunshine,” Varric rumbled.  His larger, callused hand gripped her smaller, softer one for the barest fraction of a moment before letting go.  She let a sharp grin curve her lips, though her smiles had never been as sharp as Hawke’s. Hawke who had smiled like the edge of a blade, who cut at the world before it could cut her.

 

“Glad someone does,” she quipped, forcing some lightness into her tone.  Her fingers tapped a tattoo on his shoulder, and he grunted in acknowledgement of her unvoiced order.   _ Come see me next time _ .  As she left, Varric didn’t know if he would.  The urge to leave this whole mess behind coiled in the back of his mind like a snake.

 

But what had he told the kid?  Gotta face some things head on.  The Templar that killed him in his case.  

 

“Can’t take your own advice, can you, Tethras?” he remarked to himself in his too-quiet rooms.

 

* * *

 

“Oh, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here,” Merrill said as she squished Bethany tight.  “I should’ve been here for you, for everyone, oh I even missed the funeral. But I was helping Warden Tabris, you remember her, don’t you?  Silly me, of course you remember her. You and Hawke told me all about—”

 

Tears welled in her eyes, and guilt clenched her chest anew as she thought about everything she hadn’t been here for.  Off to the west with Caitwyn, helping her search for her cure, Merrill had missed so much. She had missed the spring flowers and the autumn leaves.  She had missed her friends. She had missed Hawke.

 

Hawke.

 

The person who had helped her after her clan had… not.  Hawke who had given her a new clan, a new family. 

 

Around them, the mages of Kirkwall stared for a moment before moving on through the sitting room to the library or up to their rooms.  The house was full of mages now, all the mages that had been lost. That was like a Hawke, Merrill thought. Taking in those who didn’t have anywhere else to go.  Taking care of people. Making something good after something bad had happened.

 

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Bethany said, smiling down at Merrill.  There was a shadow in her smile, though, and Merrill felt like crying all over again at seeing it.  A tremble shook Merrill’s body, her limbs, and she wanted to rail that it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right.  The woman who had done so much was  _ gone _ .  Gone.  

 

In the Fade.  

 

There was a possibility there.  She knew the beings of the Fade, knew how to contact them and work with them.  She had tried to bring Tamlen back and failed, but Tamlen had been beyond her in so many ways that she hadn’t understood until the Warden had explained things to her about the Blight and corruption.  But Hawke wasn’t corrupted. Maybe she was just lost? Lost and Merrill could find her!

 

“Merrill, no.”  Bethany’s voice was a hammer on the  _ no _ , breaking into Merrill’s daydream hopes and plans.  Strong hands held Merrill’s shoulders, and she met Bethany’s eyes again.  Oh Creators, why couldn’t she do more to help? Why couldn’t she make this better?  Why couldn’t she make  _ anything _ better?  

 

“I know, I know, it won’t help,” Merrill managed to say though her throat threatened to close up on her.  “I only ever wanted to help.”

 

“I know, Merrill, and she knew that, too.  She knew,” Bethany assured her. That was when Merrill realized Bethany was trying to be the strong one.  She was trying to help Merrill, when Merrill should be helping  _ her _ .  Really helping, not trying to make herself feel less guilty, not by trying to cling to someone who was already gone.

 

But how did she let go?  She’d never been good at that..

 

“I know she was brave, she was brave for all of us,” Merrill whispered.  “How can we be brave without her?”

 

“I don’t know, but I think she’d be angry at us if we didn’t try.”  Bethany let her forehead dip and touch Merrill’s, and together they stood in the middle of the sitting room of the Hawke Estate, missing the bravest person they had ever known.  The woman who had done everything she could to protect them both. 

 

But Bethany was right, and Merrill thought about what Hawke would say if she could see how Merrill was carrying on.  She could just picture Hawke’s over dramatic eye-roll and hear her suggesting that they all get a drink. And probably stop crying in a place where everyone else could see them.

 

“She really would.”  A real smile bloomed on Merrill’s face, then, just thinking about what Hawke would do.  Maybe that meant Hawke wasn’t really gone. Not so long as they remembered her, not so long as they kept her alive in their hearts.  Just like she hadn’t forgotten Tamlen or the others she had lost. They would always be with her. An idea struck her, then, and she took Bethany’s hands in her own and squeezed.  “You need flowers!”

 

“Merrill what?” Bethany managed to say as she was nearly pulled off her feet by Merrill’s sudden movement towards the door.

 

“It’s spring again!  The flowers are back, and you need them!” she declared.  They burst through the front door into the brisk, bright spring morning, and a bewildered, helpless laugh fell from Bethany’s lips.  It was silly and strange and didn’t matter, but it had made Bethany laugh, and Merrill knew she’d maybe, finally, done the right thing.  

 

Because Hawke had always known what to do, known how to make things better.  It was what she had done for everyone around her, and now it was Merrill’s turn.

 

* * *

 

How had he thought this was a good idea?

 

Anders pulled the hood of his cloak up over his head as he stood in front of the servant’s entrance to the Hawke Estate.  Summer lingered on in the Free Marches, but the breeze that came off the water made nights colder than they should have been.  He was grateful for that since it meant he didn’t stand out so much among the citizenry.

 

He should knock.

 

He shouldn’t even be here.

 

It had sounded so simple when he’d been in that little village with the now former Warden-Commander and Alistair.  Use what he had learned of the cure to help other Wardens and maybe even himself, to get back to really  _ helping _ people like he had done once upon a time.  

 

So  _ they _ could get back to helping people.

 

Now that he was here, however, the whole notion revealed itself as insane.  He knew what had happened to Hawke because of what he’d put in motion. He had killed her as surely as the demon she had confronted in the Fade.

 

The door swung open, spilling light into the darkness, and before Anders could flee or so much as utter a word the blond elven woman in the doorway threw the bucket of refuse she carried at him.  The wooden bucket struck his chest and the scraps of foot unfit for even a dog splattered over his clothes and slid down them with an unpleasant  _ plop.  _  Then the woman screamed, “Lady Bethany!”

 

Anders turned on his heel and dashed across the yard.  His chest smarted from the impact, but he had known worse.  He could get to the trees at the edge of the property and from there to the Darktown tunnels and then out of Kirkwall.  This had been a mistake. He should have at least gone to Merrill first, tried to talk to her about the cure since she had helped Caitwyn to find it.  

 

But no, he had thought he should pay his respects first.  As though he had the right.

 

He sensed the sheer force of Bethany’s presence, of her magic, before he saw her.  Which, to be fair, was because he was doing his level best to get out of here before she killed him.  Years of dying slowly in the desert, and  _ now _ he wanted to live.  Impeccable timing as ever.

 

A solid fist of magic slammed into his back and pinned him to the ground, and once upon a time Justice would have reared to the surface of his mind, would have taken control and lashed out at such treatment.  Now the spirit surfaced only enough to be present, to receive what was due him as much as Anders himself.

 

The dull step of booted feet grew closer, and Anders turned his head.  The summer grass tickled his cheek and bent before his breath. Then a pair of boots stopped before his eyes, but Bethany did not kneel down for him.  His eyes tracked upwards, and he thought for a half-mad moment it was  _ Hawke _ staring down her nose at him.  But no, different eyes, the jawline was wrong, and Hawke has never been so angry with him.  Disappointed, hurt, agonized, but never had she regarded him with an inferno in her eyes.

 

And once they had all thought Bethany was the gentle one.  How did the saying go? Beware the wrath of a gentle soul.

 

He should have remembered that sooner.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered into the night.  Bethany’s hands curled into fists and her whole body trembled.  Anders was not certain what would happen. Caitwyn had spared him because she had needed him.  Needed his ability to heal, and perhaps because she was kinder than she let others know.

 

Bethany did not need him, and kindness could only be pushed so far.

 

“Get up.”  The words fell from her mouth like daggers, but he did not move.  Bending over, she grabbed him by the arm and roughly hauled him to his feet.  Always small compared to her giant of a sister, Bethany was still strong in her own right.  She glared at him and spoke through clenched teeth, “Get inside before someone sees you.”

 

He wasted no time following that order, and he responded to Bethany’s shoves to his shoulder directing him through the kitchen with its banked fires and then down into the cellar.  She brought the lamps to life with a wave of her hand, and he knew that had he tried the same thing, she would have flattened him without hesitation. He would not have blamed her. The elven servant peered after, eyeing Anders with open hostility, and then her mistress with concern.  Bethany shook her head, and with a nod the blond elf closed the door, leaving him alone with Bethany Hawke.

 

“What the  _ fuck _ , Anders?!” she yelled, her voice ringing off the stones.  He didn’t cringe, but neither did he meet her rage with anger of his own.  And neither did Justice. Her’s was the righteous anger. His shoulders slumped, and he cautiously met her eyes again.

 

“I know there’s nothing I could do or say, I know that.  I… I betrayed her.” He could not help the break in his voice, the way his breastbone ached that had nothing to do with the slam of a bucket to his chest.  “I betrayed her, and I tired to die. But I was dragged away from death to help someone else live. I had a choice, and I could have tried to disappear again, to die, or… or I could try to help.  In a way that no one else can.”

 

In the dancing orange light of the lamps, Anders watched her for her reaction, and nearly let out a sigh of relief when she crossed her arms over her chest and pursed her lips.  One dark eyebrow rose in inquiry, and he remembered how adept she was at magical theory, how her mind turned over the puzzles of spells and arcane knowledge and understood their branching and folding of reality.

 

“What do you think is going to happen?  You heal enough people and the world forgives you?  That  _ I _ forgive you for what you did to her?  Maker take this city, Anders, you  _ broke _ her that day.  She was your  _ friend _ .  She helped you so much, and you… you—”  

 

“I know.  I know what I did,” he said softly into the inarticulate pause of Bethany’s anger.  “And I know there’s no… nothing I can do to redeem myself to her. Or to you. But I can try to change.  I  _ am _ trying to change,  _ we _ are.  Justice and I.  I can—we can—maybe honor her?  No, that’s not it. It was clearer before.  Everything gets all twisted up in this city, and I’m making excuses again.  Bethany, please. I want to  _ help _ .  We want to help.  It’s what’s right.  Justice… it's what we decide it is.  And it’s not just that hundreds of men and women who chose to serve only have a Blighted end before them.”

 

“You’re talking about Wardens?” Bethany asked, the she hissed as she put the pieces together.  “The cure? Merrill said she helped Warden Tabris find it, but that she couldn’t perform it alone.”

 

“It requires a healer.  A healer and blood magic, and even then it’s dangerous,” he confirmed.  Her eyes narrowed.

 

“You’re trying to save yourself.”  She spat the words at him, but he shook his head.

 

“I was like that once.  Before Justice. I only wanted to be free for myself.  After I met him, before he and I were  _ we _ , he had already convinced me to think beyond myself.  But then I was still selfish, still focused on what  _ I _ could do.  What  _ I  _ had seen.  What  _ I _ knew… and could do.  I made Justice selfish, too, I made him Vengeance.  But there’s still a chance to do something  _ right _ .  Not for me, but for those who ask for it.  Those who seek it.” As he spoke, he stood straighter until he had uncurled to his full height and Bethany was forced to frown up at him.  For a long moment she studied his face, her brown eyes nearly black in the darkness of the cellar and narrowed as though she was ready to throw him out through a wall if necessary.

 

Abruptly, she grunted with irritation and threw her hands up in the air.

 

“Fine, I believe you.”  Her tone was clipped, and she ran a hand over her suddenly tired face.  She regarded him with a weary line to her brow, and her shoulders rounded forward.  “Make something of this chance, Anders. She… she gave you so many, so I’m giving you one last one.  For her. If you can’t…” She trailed off, the threat implicit.

 

“I’d expect nothing less,” he replied.  Hand to his heart, he bowed slightly, and she snorted derisively.  She turned to leave, and he stupidly remarked, “You’ve changed, Bethany.”

 

She froze mid-step and without facing him, she spoke toward the floor as if the words were not even meant for him.  “I’ve had to.”

 

* * *

 

Bethany was not certain what kind of god or demon had cursed her family, but it had not ceased to visit trials upon the Hawkes simply because she was the last one.  That just meant she got all of them now, instead of sharing them around.

 

Sitting at her desk, she let the paper fall away from her hands.  With only candlelight, she had to strain her eyes, and she was too tired to do that at the moment.  Orana had reluctently set up a pallet for Anders in the cellar, and Bethany wasn’t sure what possessed her to let him live, let alone to let him stay for the night.

 

No, that wasn’t right.  She did know.

 

Marian.

 

Marian had never been able to leave a second chance alone.  For all her sarcasm and bluster, Marian held on past the point of sanity.  Kept trying past the point of endurance. Until it had destroyed her. 

 

Bethany thought she believed Anders, and if she did, there was much to do.  Aveline had to know, and they had to make sure no one but family knew he was here.  Poor Aveline, Bethany thought wryly. She’d  _ hate _ this.  And oh Maker, what would happen when Fenris or Isabela found out?  Fenris might simply tear out Anders’s heart.

 

And Varric?  Andraste help her, this was going to be a mess.  But Anders had come to the Estate first. He had tried to come home.

 

That had to count for something.  One more chance at least. For all of them.  Bethany thought Marian might’ve liked that.

 

With a sigh, she stood, and Dane heaved himself away from the hearth stones to follow her to her room.  She patted the dog’s head and smiled down at him, the faithful hound that had stayed with the family that had found him as an abandoned pup.  “Come on, boy, let’s get some sleep before the family argument starts.”

 

Dane grumbled his agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to know what Merrill and Anders were up to? And why Anders isn't either full on Vengence or a total mess? Well, check out their appearances (and a lot of Anders character fixing) in [The Long Way Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14613042/chapters/33774264), the "final" story of my Warden Tabris.


	4. It would take more than a lightning-stroke

It didn’t take long for the family argument to start.  It was just Bethany’s luck—or Hawke family luck in general—that saw Fenris and Isabela back to Kirkwall at the worst time possible.  The Estate rang with raised voices, and Bethany motioned for her students to stay put as she strode from the library to the front parlor.

 

“I should rip your heart out.”

 

“Let me keel-haul him first.  Never done that, could be  _ fun _ .

 

Fenris pressed one strong arm across Anders’s chest, pinning the man to the wall even as he held his hands up in surrender.  Isabela’s hand was a claw on the mage’s too-thin face, forcing his head in her direction while his wild eyes kept flickering to Fenris and the animal snarl on the elf’s face. 

 

“Oh no, please don’t hurt him!  He must be here for a reason!” Merrill suddenly ran forward, trying to drag Isabela away.  The elf might be able to move the pirate, but not the former slave. They must have wandered into the Estate without a second thought and surprised Anders on his way from the library to the kitchen.  She had told none of them yet about his presence and was simultaneously regretting it and not.

 

“Kitten, you’re too sweet for this.”  Isabela’s tone was gentle, but it held an undercurrent of knives.  “And I’m sure he is here for a reason. Probably to worm his way back into  _ someone’s _ good graces and fool us all over again.”

 

“Hawke should have killed you that day.”  Fenris’s shoulders were rigid with tension, and the lyrium on his skin pulsed.  That was all the warning anyone ever got. She gathered her courage and aimed right for Fenris to restore order to her own home only to be stopped by a sudden shout.

 

“That’s enough!”  Aveline’s voice was a battering ram, thoroughly bowling over any and all attempts to do anything but await her judgment.  All heads turned to see the captain of the city guard striding through the house. Though instead of Donnic or another guardsman at her side, she was trailed by a frowning Varric.

 

This was so much worse than Bethany had ever imagined.

 

“Blondie.  Didn’t think you’d come back.”  Varric’s rumble was low and dangerous, something Bethany doubted many people ever heard from the normally genial dwarf.  

 

“I— _ hurk _ .”  Anders tried to speak, but Fenris shifted his arm and began to slowly crush the mage’s throat.

 

“You will not  _ murder _ anyone in my house, Fenris!” Bethany shouted.  

 

“It’s not murder, it’s justice.”  Anders gasped, his lungs straining for breath as Fenris did not let up.

 

“This is no court!  This isn’t justice!” Aveline protested.  She crossed the distance to pull Fenris back, but Isabela was suddenly between Aveline and her target, daggers out.  

 

“Have to agree with him.”  The two women glared at each other, and Aveline unslung her shield, dropping into a fighting stance.  Anders’s face had gone bright red.

 

“This isn’t right!  We shouldn’t do this!”  Merrill’s protest was accompanied by a flash of magic, and she stood beside Aveline.  Isabela blinked at the shock of it.

 

“Kitten…”

 

Varric’s wide mouth thinned to a line, and he stepped forward as if it pained him to do so.  “Drop him, Fenris.”

 

“ _ No _ .”  It was less a word and more a growl.

 

Bethany slid around everyone and put herself in Fenris’s sights.  His green eyes flickered to her, a flash of confusion there, but he didn’t let the mage go.  The mage who had destroyed the world. Who had betrayed them all, betrayed Hawke. The man who had tried to die, but couldn’t.  The man who had come back to try to make something of the rest of his existence, no matter how dangerous it was to himself.

 

“This is my house, Fenris.  And you will not kill a man in it.”  She didn’t plead. She  _ ordered _ .  Fenris’s shoulders jerked at the unexpected iron in her tone, and the pressure on Anders’s throat eased.  Her fellow mage gasped for breath, but remained still and quiet.

 

A good move on his part.

 

“How can you… how can any of you…”  Fenris gaped at her. They had never been close.  Bethany had spent a good deal of time with Aveline, and the guard captain and Varric both had visited her in the Gallows.  He had only seen her as one of the few mages he could tolerate. A quiet girl next to the cacophony that was Marian Hawke. 

 

He stepped back and gestured in dismissive disgust at them all.

 

“I will not be party to this!  He should be  _ dead _ for what he’s done.   _ Dead _ .  He doesn’t deserve your protection.”

 

“Maybe not, but he’s got it.”  

 

Bethany met his gaze, and slowly the gaze of the rest of the misfits and outcasts and odd-ones-out that Marian had taken in.  People who had been in need of second chances and then some.

 

Where was her second chance, she wondered?  Or that had been fleeing Lothering? Or her turning herself into the Gallows?  Or was it right here, right now. Was this the second chance her sister had tried to give her but never could? A second chance not to do what would make Marian proud, but to find a way to be happy?  What did that even  _ mean _ , being happy?  In a place like Kirkwall?  With friends like this?

 

Fenris grunted with disgust and headed for the door.  Aveline and Isabela stepped back to let the elf through.  Merrill hopped from foot to foot with uncertainty. Varric merely watched through tired hazel eyes.  Behind her, Anders took deep breaths, and she realized something. Justice hadn’t put in an appearance.  Oh, the spirit was still there, but it had not arrived to handle a threat to Anders’s life.

 

Did spirits get second chances, too?

 

“You don’t have to go, Fenris,” she said.  Fenris turned to regard her, confusion and anger easy to read in the furrow of his brow and curl of his lips.

 

“I cannot stay here while that  _ thing _ is in this house.  Not if you want it to live.”

 

“You’ve just as much right to be here as him.”

 

_ “More _ ,” Isabela whispered.  Aveline nudged the other woman, though more gently than she might have even minutes ago.

 

“This is my home.  But it was her home, too, and you’re all welcome here.  Don’t… she’d hate this. She always hated how you fought.  All of you. Snips and barbs and never backing down for a second.  But she never turned you out. Never made you think you weren’t welcome.  And I—I lost one family, and I’ll be damned before I lose another because you’re all too fucking proud to bend a little.”

 

There was the rustle of parchment and scratch of quills from the library, the warmth of the fire in the hearth, Dane’s nails clacking on stone, and the scent of fresh baked bread rising up from the kitchens.  No one spoke. No one moved. They all barely breathed.

 

The last time they had all been together, it had been the possibly the worst day in all their lives.  Horror and terror and blood. Meredith’s madness revealed, Orsino losing his mind for fear of the woman who should have protected him.  It had been a storm. It had been despair and hopelessness and Marian had pulled them all out of the fire. She had been the rock upon which they had all stood.

 

There was no rock anymore, and all they had left was each other.

 

As small an inadequate as that was.

 

Maybe this was another chance for them all.

 

* * *

 

Bethany craned her neck up at the statue of Marian that still stood in the docks of Kirkwall as dawn broke over the city.  One stone boot placed firmly on the head of a qunari head while her right hand held a massive sword aloft. A deeply heroic pose.  Another thing Marian hated, the aggrandizement of something she had never been.

 

It had been a year since Marian had died.

 

Not the easiest of years, and that was even considering she had known some very, very bad years.  But she had known good moments, in spite of all she had lost. She had all the highlights outlined in the letter she clutched in her hand.  The city would honor its Champion again, probably another roaming party just like after her funeral, but for now in the quiet Bethany took a moment for herself with one of the last vestiges of her sister.  The closest thing there would be a pyre marker.

 

She closed her eyes and soaked up the warmth of the rising sun on her face as it burned through the fog that clung to the harbor.  The wind stirred, setting the sails of the docked ships to booming and creaking and picking up a spray of salt. She exhaled slowly and opened her eyes, glancing around at the accumulated offerings that the statue garnered.  The people of Kirkwall loved their Champion, but after the Inquisitor had come here and left a candle for Marian, the practice had spread. Candles were the most common, but there were also flowers and ribbons and other tokens to say  _ I have been here, I have seen you, you are not forgotten _ .

 

No one would forget Marian Hawke.

 

Bethany knew her sister wouldn’t care.

 

Carefully, she picked up a small, smooth stone.  It had streaks of orange in it, and might’ve been a tiger’s eye.  It was well worn and much loved by whomever had left it. Perhaps a child.  Reaching up to the statue’s platform, she set the letter down and placed the rock over it.  The corner of the parchment fluttered in the morning wind, but the rock held it down.

 

Once again she gazed up into that stone face.  For all that the pose was false, the sculptor had managed to capture Marian’s wry likeness disconcertingly well.  One eyebrow arched in a confident challenge, and a smirk curved her face. It was how Bethany remembered her sister best.  She touched her fingertips to the stone boot that was planted on the base of the plinth, and for a moment she was with her sister again.

 

Then she turned around and drew her cloak about her only to find Fenris waiting for her.  No longer surprising as it had been, the first time he had skulked around to wait for her after some errand, it was a familiar thing now.

 

“I found a rather good vintage for this evening,” he said, his deep voice part of rather than at odds with the quiet of the morning.  “One of her favorites, I believe.” 

 

“I’ll not ask  _ where _ you found it,” she teased gently, slipping her hand into his and squeezing.  He squeezed back. “Come on, let’s go home. Can’t keep the family waiting.”

 

Hand in hand Bethany and Fenris made their way back to Hightown and the Hawke Estate where the rest of Marian Hawke’s cobbled together family waited while under a rock a letter fluttered in the morning wind off the harbor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Head to the next and final chapter for the letter Bethany wrote!


	5. I am none the wiser

_ Marian, _

 

_ I know you hated that name, but it’s ridiculous to call you ‘Hawke.’  At least to me. You’ll have to put up with it. You’ve been gone for a year now.  Not gone. Dead. Dead for a year, and I’m not sure if I’m really doing any better. _

 

_ Everyone came home.  And I do mean  _ _ everyone _ _.  I know, I was just as shocked as you would’ve been.  But he’s better, I think. Stable. He reminds me of the man we first met in Darktown.  The man who healed and helped and did his best to give people another chance. I think that’s why you liked him at first.  He was strange and not always well, but you saw that he tried to help. I do think he’s different now, from whatever he became at the end.  Between him, myself, and Merrill we’ve been able to refine a bit of helpful magic, and a lot more people might be able to be helped soon. We might even be able to cure someone who is Blighted.   _

 

_ I’m sure you’re bored of this already, so I’ll move on. _

 

_ Isabela is still herself.  The Pirate Queen of every port she’s in.  But she comes back more frequently. I think it’s because of the baby. _

 

_ Not mine!   Maker, no. Aveline and Donnic finally were successful, and he’s a beautiful child.  You should be glad you weren’t here while Aveline was pregnant. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen all of Kirkwall so well behaved.  They want to try for another, and the local gangs are terrified of the prospect. _

 

_ Isabela is a doting Aunt, which is amusing in and of itself.  She’s not given up piracy entirely. Far too fond of stealing, but she’s started stealing for Varric, which is a bit better.  Since Varric is now Viscount—I laughed for a full day when that was made official, and I know you would have laughed, too—Isabela is technically a privateer.  She protects Kirkwall’s and Varric’s interests, and takes a tidy bit of the loot for herself. _

 

_ Varric I don’t see much as I’d like to, but I think he’s learning to live after you.  The Viscount title keeps him busy, but he’s still writing. He won’t tell me what he’s working on, but I know it has to do with you.  I think it will always be a little bit about you for him. Better for him to write it, though, than to keep it close to his chest. I think he’ll be alright one day.  He’s not moping at least. I feel as if I’ve managed that for you. _

 

_ Merrill isn’t living in the Alienage any longer.  She’s moved into the Estate as an instructor. She’s helped us with those mages who come from Dalish clans but aren’t allowed to stay.  She gets to pass on all her knowledge, finally a Keeper in her own way. There’s a girl that’s also caught her eye, and I hope Merrill gets over her shyness or I shall simply lock them together in a room to sort it out. _

 

_ That Fenris visits at all is a wonder.  With all that has happened—and with some of the reforms coming out of Minrathous—it seems there just aren’t as many slavers for a lone wanderer to kill these days.  He’s calmer in a way I haven’t seen since before everything went wrong. The Big Wrong, not all the little ones, I mean. He’s been staying longer than usual, and I find myself hoping he doesn’t leave quiet so soon.  Maybe the others want to lock  _ _ us _ _ in a room and have done, but I’m not in any rush.  I don’t think he is either. _

 

_ You said I’d already made you proud.  In typical Hawke fashion, I kept trying to make you proud for too long after you were gone.  I kept trying to be happy for you, too. To do what you would’ve done. But I’m not you. I’m only myself, and whatever happiness means for me, well.  I’m not terribly sure. I can only keep trying to do what I think is right. _

 

_ And now that I write that, I know that’s all you did, too.  For that,  _ _ I _ _ am proud of  _ _ you _ _. _

 

_ I love you, Marian, and I miss you.  I always will.  _

 

_ ~~Bethy _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I shall never get you put together entirely,  
> Pieced, glued, and properly jointed.  
> Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles  
> Proceed from your great lips.  
> It’s worse than a barnyard.
> 
> Perhaps you consider yourself an oracle,  
> Mouthpiece of the dead, or of some god or other.  
> Thirty years now I have labored  
> To dredge the silt from your throat.  
> I am none the wiser.
> 
> Scaling little ladders with glue pots and pails of lysol  
> I crawl like an ant in mourning  
> Over the weedy acres of your brow  
> To mend the immense skull plates and clear  
> The bald, white tumuli of your eyes.
> 
> A blue sky out of the Oresteia  
> Arches above us. O father, all by yourself  
> You are pithy and historical as the Roman Forum.  
> I open my lunch on a hill of black cypress.  
> Your fluted bones and acanthine hair are littered
> 
> In their old anarchy to the horizon-line.  
> It would take more than a lightning-stroke  
> To create such a ruin.  
> Nights, I squat in the cornucopia  
> Of your left ear, out of the wind,
> 
> Counting the red stars and those of plum-color.  
> The sun rises under the pillar of your tongue.  
> My hours are married to shadow.  
> No longer do I listen for the scrape of a keel  
> On the blank stones of the landing.  
> \--"The Colossus" by Sylvia Plath


End file.
